


your voice, getting closer

by allegrolines



Series: footsteps [3]
Category: Infinite (Band)
Genre: Character Study, Dancing, Established Relationship, M/M, Music, Nerds in Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-28
Updated: 2017-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-12 03:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10480713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allegrolines/pseuds/allegrolines
Summary: A lot has changed since then. They are older—a little more bruised, but also a lot more certain of what they want to do with their careers and their futures. Howon knows how Woohyun’s mouth tastes now, how the span of his shoulders and the sharp weight of his hipbones feel under his hands. What hasn’t changed is the rhythmictap tap tapof Woohyun’s fingers on the keyboard of his laptop, lulling Howon to sleep at 3 am on any random weekday, or the excitement Howon feels every time he starts filling a new page with verses, his handwriting dark against the crispness of the paper.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy birthday, Howon!

“Hyung, can you stay for a moment longer?” Howon asks.

Dongwoo’s eyes go very wide in his sweat-slicked face, his bangs sticking to his forehead and temples. “You want us to run through the choreo again?” He’s using his own shirt to fan himself, and his shoulders drop visibly. It’s too late for the two of them to still be in the practice room; Howon is looking forward to a shower and a quick snack and the promise of softness and comfort of his own bed.

“I just want you to listen to something,” he says. That’s enough to make him nervous, but he pushes through the feeling of trepidation fluttering in his chest. “Please? It won’t take more than five minutes.”

“Oh—Oh!” Dongwoo exclaims, perking up. “I can do that!” He motions for Howon to get closer, plopping himself down on the bench. Howon goes, holding his phone so tightly that the edges of it bite into his palm. “What I’m supposed to do—just listen to it?” Dongwoo says.

“I—” This part is always the most difficult, somehow. “I’d appreciate—some feedback? If you don’t mind.”

Dongwoo hums, wiping across his face with the back of his wrist. He takes the earbuds from Howon and puts them on, giving him a thumbs up. Howon takes a breath, checks that the volume isn’t turned all the way up, and presses play.

Even though he isn’t able hear the song, Howon can still follow its progression in the way Dongwoo’s expression turns more and more thoughtful as the seconds tick away. The tight restlessness under Howon’s breastbone spreads down to his stomach. He waits, counting beats under his breath. When the track ends, Dongwoo takes the headphones off and gives them back to him.

“You’re writing a song for Woohyunie?” it’s the first thing Dongwoo asks. “Is it a surprise?”

Howon’s mouth moves silently around the shape of a few different replies, until he finally settles on a simple “Yes,” looking down at his hands on his lap as he speaks. The screen of his phone dims, then fades to black.

Dongwoo nods. “I figured that’s why you asked me,” he says, “since you usually go to him for these things.”

“Only sometimes,” Howon protests, but Dongwoo doesn’t seem to hear him.

“I like how it sounds,” he says. “It’s—different? From other songs you’ve written, I mean.”

“Our voices are very different.”

“That’s true.” He tilts his head to the side. “I can see how this kind of style would fit him. You’re putting a lot of thought into it.”

Once again, Howon hesitates. “I just want to get it right.”

That makes Dongwoo laugh. He gets up and starts packing his things, piling everything haphazardly together into his bag—an empty water bottle, a dirty hand towel, the tank top he had sweated through during their group practice. “I’d say you’re on the right track,” he says, beaming at Howon. “But we should get going now,” he adds. “We aren’t supposed to sleep in tomorrow.”

“Yeah,” Howon sighs. “Thanks, hyung.”

He picks up his own stuff, wrinkling his nose at his damp clothes. They turn off the lights of the room and lock the door behind them. One of their managers is waiting for them in the car, napping on the front seat with the radio switched on to a sports station. He startles when Dongwoo knocks on the window, and squints at them with tired, red-rimmed eyes. “I thought you said only one extra hour,” he tells them flatly while both of them hop into the van and sprawl on the backseat.

“Sorry, hyung,” Dongwoo replies, “we got carried away.”

“Sorry, hyung,” Howon echoes.

They pull away from the parking lot with their manager still muttering to himself, going on and on about schedules and days off and lost sleep. Two traffic lights away from the company, Howon searches for his phone blindly, pops the earbuds on, and leans back against the backrest. He closes his eyes when the bare bones of his song start playing, and lets the music wash over him, his head full of words.

 

\--

 

If he didn't know better, Howon would think Woohyun is nervous—he’s waving his hands along the song, stumbling over his own words in his haste to explain this section and that, the chord progressions, his instrumentation and arrangement choices, what goes where and _why_. But Woohyun goes quiet and hesitant when he's feeling out of his depth; that's how he had been when he started sharing snippets of his music with Howon, happy but tentative, so bright and full of ideas, but still unsure about how to translate them into something concrete. It’s been a long time since the first time Woohyun approached him, though, and Howon _does_ know better now—he is familiar with the ups and downs of Woohyun’s voice, the restless motion of his hands. Woohyun isn't nervous at all, but so excited that he can't keep still.

There’s nothing graceful about Woohyun’s explanation, if Howon’s being completely honest. Whenever he gets like this it’s like his mouth has to chase after his brain, never quite managing to catch up with it. He stutters, stops mid-sentence to start rambling about something completely different, follows the beat of the song tapping his fingers on the table, on his laptop, on Howon’s knee. So, yeah, there’s nothing graceful about Woohyun’s explanation, Howon thinks, but it’s so terribly endearing that if he weren’t already sure about his feelings this is how he’d know that he was gone on Woohyun—listening to his music and staring at the way his smile goes wide and brilliant as the track plays on the computer, his legs tangled with Howon’s under the desk.

Howon doesn’t really understand the way Woohyun’s mind works, when it comes to this.

Years of writing lyrics have taught Howon to start music from words. Movement comes first, then words, then beats and chords and melodies. Music is a language that doesn’t always come easily to him. Howon can sketch feelings through the motion of his body much better than he can put notes together—then again, he’s been dancing for much longer than he’s been composing. Writing songs is a painstaking process for him, but one he doesn’t mind spending time on, fumbling with the software with clumsy fingers while he layers edit after edit. Repetition is essential. Practice makes perfect. Howon doesn’t believe that much in inspiration, but he has first-hand experience of the results hard work can bear.

Even though their work and thought processes are very different, Woohyun appreciates his input, and has actively asked for it ever since Howon mentioned he was also interested in songwriting. That day, Howon found himself talking about using music to convey the kind of emotions he wouldn’t normally dare to say aloud, about striving to become a better, more complete artist. Woohyun knocked on the door of his room a week later, with the final draft of one of his own songs and a hopeful smile curving his lips.

A lot has changed since then. They are older—a little more bruised, but also a lot more certain of what they want to do with their careers and their futures. Howon knows how Woohyun’s mouth tastes now, how the span of his shoulders and the sharp weight of his hipbones feel under his hands. What hasn’t changed is the rhythmic _tap tap tap_ of Woohyun’s fingers on the keyboard of his laptop, lulling Howon to sleep at 3 am on any random weekday, or the excitement Howon feels every time he starts filling a new page with verses, his handwriting dark against the crispness of the paper.

“Breathe, Hyunnie,” he says, pressing his toes into the arch of Woohyun’s foot. 

Woohyun does, grinning until his whole face is scrunched up. “Am I talking too fast again?” he asks.

Even though Howon shakes his head, Woohyun pauses the song and resets it to the beginning. The display is all neat blocks of color; it seems to be waiting for the next tap of Woohyun’s finger to unfurl back into sound. “Tell me more about the chorus,” Howon says, leaning forward with one hand braced on Woohyun’s thigh.

“Don’t forget you have to get ready for that interview before lunchtime,” Woohyun tells him. Still, he plays the track once again, accepting Howon’s request like it’s a gif on itself. “I don’t want you to be late because of me,” he adds softly, although it sounds like an afterthought.

“It’s fine,” Howon says, his attention caught on the build up of the music, the sweetness of the violins counterpointed by the depth of the cellos, the way those two lines lead to the electric guitars, just before the melody picks up again. He turns his hand, leaves it palm up on Woohyun’s leg so Woohyun can reach back and lace their fingers together. “I still have time.”

“We do,” Woohyun replies. He clears his throat. “So—the chorus, right?”

“The chorus,” Howon repeats, and then there’s just Woohyun talking over the song again, and the pressure and warmth of their hands held tight.

 

\--

 

The tip of Woohyun’s chin digs into Howon’s collarbone, a bit too sharply to be comfortable. He welcomes the pain, though, because at least it’s distracting him from the heat of Woohyun’s body on top of his, the way Woohyun hums idly while he leafs through one of Howon’s notebooks.

It’s not like Howon’s never shared any of his writing with Woohyun before, but that, just like working on lyrics together, is worlds away from this. This is too raw and honest—an unrefined collection of rhymes and snippets that Howon mostly keeps for himself, only a fraction of which eventually make it into their songs. Woohyun has been reading them, starting from the most recent notebook and making his way to the oldest, mapping Howon’s chronology as a singer and a musician in reverse. 

There’s nothing in them that Howon’s particularly ashamed of, but he can’t help the tiny stirring of self-consciousness gnawing at him every time Woohyun turns a new page. Woohyun won’t judge Howon’s past-self for his inexperienced lines, but he has a keen eye and, most importantly, he _remembers_ —he can recall jokes from years ago with an accuracy that’s both flattering and overwhelming, or name the exact flavor of the soft serves they had during their first schedule overseas long after the taste has faded from Howon’s memory. 

Woohyun’s fingertips trace the words in Howon’s notebook, like he wants to learn their shape and meaning through touch alone. “This moment you described here—” He lingers on a sentence. “Were you writing about me? Even back then?”

Howon feels himself flush. “Even before that,” he corrects Woohyun. His room is so silent, as if Dongwoo and Sunggyu weren’t just one door away, as if they were truly alone. “You were—” Howon continues, his voice thick. It’s difficult to share his feelings aloud, even though Woohyun is literally reading over a page filled with them. “That performance stuck with me at the time, the way you were onstage. I just couldn’t look away.”

“I remember, too,” Woohyun says quietly. His hand finds Howon’s under the blanket. “I remember that day, because I was also looking at you.”

 

\--

 

“—and don’t forget to eat well, of course. Do you need me to buy you a new comforter? It’s getting cold already.”

“I can get my own comforter, mom,” Howon says. He has an array of takeout menus spread on the table of the living room—Woohyun is busy recording at the studio today, and Howon doesn’t want to brave the mess Sunggyu left in the kitchen trying to cook lunch for both him and Dongwoo.

His mother sighs, a sudden puff of air that crackles into the earphone. Howon can tell she’s unimpressed, most likely skeptical of his ability to shop for his own bedding. “Whatever you get, don’t wait until too long,” she says. “Have you seen the last forecasts?”

“I have,” he replies. “We’re all getting some time off this weekend. I’ll buy it then.”

“Mhm.”

“And I’ll be able to visit in a few weeks.”

“We’ll be happy to have you over,” she says, quiet and gentle. Howon presses his phone closer against his ear, does his best to listen for the shift of her clothes and the ever-present background noise of his parents’ house. “Oh, wait. Your father wants to say hello.”

“Ah, mom—” he starts, but she’s already gone, having turned away from the receiver.

He can hear a whispered conversation at the other side of the line, too hushed for him to make out what it’s being said; Howon suspects his father didn’t really ask to talk to him, but was roped into it regardless of his opinion on the matter. The voices fall quiet a moment later. There’s a beat of nothing—two beats, twelve beats, twenty—and then the texture of the silence changes. 

“Son.”

Howon inhales. “Hello, dad,” he says.

They talk for a few minutes, an exchange of pleasantries, uneven and strained. It feels like there will always be a good amount of awkwardness between them—his father is a man of few words, someone who holds on closely to his own pride; Howon knows he can be those things, too. Their relationship has loosened a bit throughout the last couple of years, but speaking over the phone is even more difficult than doing it face to face, for both of them.

“I told mom I’d be able to visit soon,” Howon says, when he finally runs out of bland, safe topics to talk about.

“Your mother will be happy,” his father replies after a pause. And then, against all odds, he surprises Howon by asking, “How’s everything going? With your music.”

Howon’s hand tightens around the edge of the table, startled. “It’s—” he stutters, like he’s seven again. “It’s good. We aren’t getting ready for our next comeback yet,” he explains, stilted, cautious, “but we’re still busy. It’s always busy.”

The silence on his father’s end of the phone call lasts for longer this time. Howon waits, breath caught in his chest. Not so long ago he wouldn’t have had the patience to do so, but if he’s learnt something over the years is how music can’t exist without silence. There needs to be silence for a melody to unfold. The memory of one of his first attempts at songwriting, too tight and heavy and dense, comes to mind, but also Woohyun’s fond laughter afterwards— _You need to stop sometime if you don’t want to drown, Howon-ah_.

“And you? Are you busy too?” his father finally says—another question, Howon realizes.

Somehow, he finds himself replying, “I’m working on something, actually. A song.”

The sound his father makes in response can only be described as a grunt, though it could have been a hum of agreement, if it had come from a softer man. “How do you do that?”

Howon falters again, knocked out of balance. “Slowly,” he says, because that’s the honest truth. “It’s about—Songs usually have distinct parts. Even across different genres. So you can write the right pieces, and then make them fit together.” He stops, ponders on whether there’s anything left for him to say before adding, “I’m still learning.”

He can hear that same grunt from before again, then there’s a rush of static, and his mother’s voice again. “We need to get going,” she says kindly. Howon can’t tell if she also sounds amused or not. “Your brother is coming for dinner later. Don’t forget to buy the comforter.”

“I won’t,” he replies, his thoughts still reeling. He wants to ask her to wait, but he doesn’t even know what he would say if she did. “Take care.”

“You too,” she says. “Dress warmly, and be good to your hyungs and dongsaengs.”

“I’ll call back in a few days,” Howon says before she hangs up.

The apartment feels too empty, and not just because his two flatmates aren’t home. A part of Howon wants to run upstairs and jog across the city; another, much more reasonable, makes him reach out for his phone again and send a short text message to Woohyun.

_I’m going out to get chicken. You want some?_

Surprisingly, Woohyun replies before Howon’s even out of the elevator. _Just taking five right now_ , his message says. _But I can take a dinner break in an hour and a half. Bring me one of those bread rolls I like?_

Howon checks the time. An hour and a half gives him enough time to walk to their favorite chicken place, get an order of wings to go, and then stop by a convenience store to buy Woohyun’s bread on his way to the company. The weather is cold enough that he zips his jacket all the way up to his throat. He also untucks the hood of his sweater so he can cover his ears with it. _I’ll be there. It’s my treat today_ , he texts Woohyun, pressing send before he can overthink it and stop himself.

His phone buzzes while he’s pushing the front door of the building open. _^__^_ , is Woohyun’s only reply.

Howon puts it away in the back pocket of his jeans. His breath hangs in the air like mist. Maybe, he thinks, as he starts walking down the street, Woohyun will agree to help him choose a new comforter .

 

\--

 

If songs need to have enough space for a singer to breathe, then they also need to have enough space for a dancer to _move_ —that’s the way Howon thinks about music, at least. Whenever he wants to test the flow of whatever he’s working on, it’s easier to do it by feel, letting the instinct built after years of practice override his conscious thoughts. He focuses on the track playing through his headphones, making mental notes on the details that he needs to tweak later, once he puts everything else aside to sit in front of his computer.

For now, though, he dances to the draft of his own song. It’s much slower than the tracks he performs with the group, but also faster than a ballad. Howon feels comfortable with the mid-tempo rhythm of if, even though it doesn’t fit the style he and his friends normally prefer. The sound is rounder, softer, less heavy on the bass and the drums. His movements are precise, but not sharp; he keeps the footwork simple, traces a wide circle outwards with his right leg, then follows it with the rest of his body.

He’s used to maintaining a tight, compact form when he dances, and to the fast pace of their choreos. The slower motions need as much stamina, but also a different kind of strength to make them as smooth and fluid as Howon wants them to be. He can feel the strain on his calves and hamstrings, on the tense plane of his stomach and the curve of his shoulders. Howon reaches forward with his arms, curving them at the crook of both elbows. He drops low to almost a crouch, folding his torso over his right thigh while he sweeps an arch around his body with his other foot, toes pointed downwards. The melody swells and he rolls on his back, uses his own momentum after finishing the turn to push himself back on his feet.

Howon stops, panting in front of the mirror. The track itself is unfinished and rough and imperfect, but the parts fit together, and it _feels_ good.

Woohyun finds him there a few minutes later, because he seems to have the uncanny ability of always knowing when Howon is in the practice room. That, or he asked around until someone pointed him in the right direction—it’s not a secret that Woohyun knows most of the staff by both name and sight. He’s carrying two cups of coffee, but he frowns when Howon makes grabby hands at them, and moves to hide them behind his back.

“Drink some water, first,” he says, setting the coffee on the bench. He drapes his coat next to the cups and loosens the scarf that hangs around his neck.

Howon obeys, sitting down and emptying his bottle in long, careful swallows. He gestures for Woohyun again after he’s done. “Come here?”

“You’re a mess right now,” Woohyun says. He walks up to Howon’s side, though, runs his fingers through Howon’s damp hair, pushing it back and off his forehead. His thumb catches on a bead of sweat at Howon’s temple. “What was that?”

Howon leans into his hand. “Hmm?”

“The dancing,” Woohyun tells him. He sounds a little breathless, low and awed. “It was—I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dance like that before.”

“How long did you spend spying on me?”

“Please,” Woohyun says, light and teasing. His nails catch on Howon’s skin, making him shiver. “If I’d been spying on you, you’d’ve never known.”

“Woohyunie,” Howon murmurs.

There’s a sigh, and Woohyun sits at his left, leaving a few centimeters between them. He passes Howon one of the coffee cups. “I got here a moment ago, I didn’t get to see that much. I know you were dancing to something different, though. Mid-tempo, but not your usual R&B, right? It didn’t have that—” He gestures with his plastic straw. “That same edge to it. That kind of bite.”

Howon chuckles. Of course Woohyun can tell that much from the song just from watching him move, because Woohyun knows music, but also knows _him_. 

Howon wouldn’t have him any other way.

“It’s nothing yet,” he says.

“That was too beautiful to be nothing, Howonie,” Woohyun insists, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“You know what I mean,” Howon says.

“I know,” Woohyun agrees. “But you know what I mean, too.” 

He closes that bit of space between them, until their thighs are pressed together—faded denim against dark grey cotton. Howon sips at his Americano, the bitterness of it almost ashy on his tongue, barely watered down by the ice cubes. They share the moment in silence, not because they don’t have anything to say to each other, but because they can.

Their phones start ringing at the same time—soon, always too soon. “Time to get ready for vocal practice?” Howon asks, turning off the alarm on his.

“Apparently.” Woohyun yawns when he gets up. “We should go, or Sunggyu-hyung will take the good music stand again.”

“All the music stands are exactly the same.”

“They are _not_ ,” Woohyun replies, gathering his things.

“Go on, then,” Howon tells him. “I need to drop by the restroom to get changed.”

Woohyun is almost out of the door when he turns around. “Howonie? Whenever that—” he smiles “— _nothing_ is done, will you show it to me?”

Howon thinks of the lyrics in the middle drawer by his bed, the words that he wrote for Woohyun years ago, and that he has been revisiting ever since. The thinks of an incomplete melody, and of how those two things will click together, sooner than later. He smiles back.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “Whenever it’s ready, you’ll be the first one to know.”

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this story last year for a little project takakoyaki and I put together, and it felt fitting to post it here today. I had been wanting to write about Howon and music for a while, and this grew into a Howon character study, with a side of Howon/Woohyun feels. I hope both of them will keep writing and composing songs for years to come.
> 
> The title is from Woohyun’s “Gravity”, because somehow all the fics in this verse ended up named after his songs.


End file.
